There is funny shit everywhere... sometimes you just have to squint a little to see it.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Helpless

Some
moments in life stay with you.

There's a local street guy I
see around, in various states of psychosis or inebriation. Sometimes
he's well behaved, just clearly insane, but somehow aware of how
correct behaviour should be. I've seen him rage on the streets. I've
seen him cry. I've seen him plead for a sandwich or a piece of toast,
because I am homeless and please help me.

He came into the
cafe recently and asked if we could spare a couple of pieces of
vegemite toast. He was expecting to be brushed off, waved away. He's
jittery and twitchy and knows how the world is. No one has any time
for him. Life is miserable, for him. There is no food and no shelter
for him. Love and affection? When was the last time he felt love and
affection?

You can't encourage these people, you understand.
We have a business to run. Every day right now is a struggle. And the
guy has been in before. He got his sandwich that time too, that time
bought by a kind-hearted doctor.

Struggle.

I gave him
his vegemite toast. His state was calm that day. He said thank you.
He said “I'm good like that, I'm good when I'm good.” And he
left. I watched him walk down the street, tearing open the bag to
tuck into his warm vegemite toast on this chilly winter day.

Next
day, on my walk home from my cosy cafe to my warm home, I saw him
again. He was in the worst state I've seen him. Carrying his half
loaf of bread, he stumbled in circles, didn't know what the hell was
going on. He dropped his bread, picked it up again. Staggered and
stumbled. He bumped into me, said he was sorry.

I kept going
but had to wait at the intersection. Behind me now, the guy stumbled
forward and hit his head on the traffic light pole. He exploded.
“CUNTS! YOU ARE ALL SUCH FUCKING CUNTS AND I FUCKING HATE YOU!”
His voice was raw. There was a raw gash under one eye, but it was not
a fresh wound. He hurled his bread into the busy intersection of
traffic, people in their cosy cars going to their warm homes.

“I
fucking hate you. I really do.”

He crumpled to the
footpath.

The traffic light changed, and I looked away. I
looked ahead and crossed the road and kept walking towards my cosy
and warm home.

And I didn't feel happy or blessed and the
moral of the story isn't that we should all appreciate what precious
things we have, I just felt like shit.

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About This Blog

Random writings, stories, magazine theatre reviews and interviews, fiction, and occasionally my bi-weekly column Grumpy, which used to appear in the pages of Tsunami mag. Oh and be sure to check out my ebook, 17 Stories Of Love & Crime.